Determination
by Cleo the Muse
Summary: Mitchell's recovery isn't going so well until he receives a visitor who makes him think about other possibilities.


**Determination **by Cleo the Muse  
Rating: Older Kids  
Genre: General, Hurt/Comfort  
Warnings: Mitchell's a Southern boy with appropriately colorful language.  
Episodes: Set after "Icon". Includes spoilers (major and minor) for "Avalon, Part One", "Icon", "Lockdown", "New Order", "Lost City", and "Evolution". Also, a few references to Atlantis' "Rising".  
Synopsis: Mitchell's recovery isn't going so well until he receives a visitor who makes him think about other possibilities.  
Notes: The first time I watched "Avalon, Part One", it bugged me to see Daniel wearing the jacket Leda gave him in "Icon" when he visited Mitchell in the hospital. Blame it on those same completionist tendencies Redbyrd complains about so much, but I just _had_ to make it make sense...  
Status: Complete as of December 5, 2005

* * *

**Determination**

_"We deceive ourselves when we fancy that only weakness needs support. Strength needs it far more."  
_-- Madame Swetchine, _The Writings of Madame Swetchine_

Sharp pains shot up his legs and spine and Cameron Mitchell had to lean heavily on the bars supporting his weight, trusting the supporting harness to keep the rest of him from tumbling into a graceless heap on the floor. "I think that's enough for one day," he muttered, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead to the cold metal.

The physical therapist clearly didn't like his statement. "We just started," she reminded him.

"Yeah? And I think that's about enough for one day!"

She pursed her lips. "I can't force you to continue, Cameron, but you aren't going to get any stronger if you don't keep at it for more than five minutes at a time."

He turned his head and glared. "Well, right now, five minutes is about all I can take."

Looking deeply disappointed, the pretty blonde therapist--Shirley? Cheryl? he couldn't remember--turned and called for a wheelchair and helped him out of the walking harness. Once she had him safely ensconced back in his room, she said, "I don't have anyone scheduled at two o'clock today. Call me if you change your mind, okay?"

"Oh, sure," he agreed. But as she disappeared out the door, he closed his eyes and muttered, "Like I'm really going to change my mind in three hours!"

He tired out so easily these days. The physical effort of trying to hold up his weight and move uncooperative limbs exhausted him very quickly, especially when combined with the spears of agony stabbing into his skull with each step he attempted to take. Back in high school, he could play an entire game of football and still have energy enough to go to a party afterward. Granted, that had been nearly twenty _years_ ago, but he'd always kept himself in good shape.

After high school had been college and Air Force ROTC, then finally OCS and the Air Force itself. Daily conditioning kept his physique up and the desire to become a fighter pilot--maybe even an astronaut--made him push himself even harder to get his body in top form. He'd been accepted into the F-16 program and had loved every minute of it, right up until his CO had taken him aside one day and suggested he switch to a brand-new, ultra-high-tech, super-secret fighting craft that had been under development for a few years and was now ready to begin deploying. He'd fallen in love with the F-302 at first sight.

All his hard work, training, and determination went right out the window into the cold Antarctic night when he'd been shot down in combat, landing his sorry self at the Air Force Academy Hospital. And for what? Sure, apparently he'd saved the lives of the famous SG-1 and--by extension--the entire planet, but that wasn't much comfort when his legs refused to listen to his brain. Sure, he knew they were busy people, but a small selfish part of himself wanted Sam Carter--who he'd known for a few years, now--or Doctor Jackson or Teal'c or Colonel O'Neill or _someone_ to stop by and see him and tell him he'd done good.

As though Cam's thoughts had conjured him, Doctor Jackson magically appeared in the chair at his bedside. "None of us would be here today if it wasn't for what you did."

"What?" he managed, opening his eyes a bit further.

"It's true. You gave us the time we needed to ring down to the outpost and get Jack to the control chair for the Ancient weapon. You and the rest of your squadron are the reason this whole planet wasn't wiped out by Anubis," Jackson explained looking a little less like a figment of Cam's imagination now that he had his eyes fully open. What the hell was in his IV?

Mistaking his confusion for a lack of recognition, Jackson said, "Oh! Sorry, I guess I should have introduced myself. I'm Daniel--"

"Daniel Jackson, yeah," Cam managed, pushing himself to a more upright position on the bed. "What brings you to these parts?"

The archaeologist shrugged. "Just came to check on you. I actually meant to come long before now, but things have been a little... hectic."

"I bet," Cam answered. "Since it hasn't been all over the six o'clock news, I'm guessin' we managed to keep the battle out of public consciousness?"

"Yeah, but certain governments in the international community learned about the Ancient outpost under the ice, which lead to a _big_ diplomatic fiasco over who got to study the technology left down there. Then the Goa'uld came begging us to save them from Ba'al--"

"Really?"

He made a face. "Yeah, but it was mostly a ploy. Then the Replicators attacked the Asguard, Thor thawed out Jack, we saved their skinny gray butts _again_, then the President decided to put Jack in charge of the SGC."

Cam blinked. "You've been busy, all right." How in the world did Jackson make it all sound so casual?

"Oh, that was just the start of it," Jackson finished. "But anyway, how are you doing? Walking any yet?"

"Not yet," he answered, not willing to admit he really hadn't been trying all that hard. "Though it's not for lack of trying on the part of my therapist, the Marquise de Sade."

Jackson grinned. "You must have Cheryl."

"How'd you know?"

"I got shot in the leg last year... Cheryl was an absolute _tyrant_ 'til I got off the crutches. Then I got shot in the shoulder a few months back and was given over to her tender mercies again." He shrugged. "You're in good hands, Mitchell."

Cam just had to ask. "How do you sound so damn casual about getting injured?"

The archaeologist rolled his shoulders again. "When it happens so often, you get used to it, sadly enough, and try to get better at not letting it happen again." There was a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. "It's taken me almost eight years, but I've finally learned how to duck, for the most part."

Despite himself, Cam laughed. "So, Colonel O'Neill got put in charge of the SGC?"

"It's _General_ O'Neill, now. Seems he had to get promoted to get the job. And, of course, he just _had_ to promote Sam to Lieutenant Colonel."

"Oh, the things we do in service to our country," the officer moaned in mock-dismay.

"Yeah, it was pretty tough for all of us to get used to," Jackson admitted with a wry grin.

There was a moment of silence, which Cam finally broke by blurting, "Nice jacket. It's got that whole World War II bomber-look to it."

The archaeologist looked down at the battered-looking leather and tugged at the lined collar. "Yeah, that's pretty much what it is."

"So where'd you get it? I'd like to get me one of those."

"Ah... well, it was a given to me by one of the residents of a country called the Rand Protectorate."

"Offworld?"

"Yeah. That's actually partly what brought me here," Jackson answered, looking a little uncomfortable. "I got hurt pretty badly in an explosion there, and spent a few weeks recovering with only my 'nurse' to keep me company."

"None of your team dropped by?"

"They couldn't... the 'Gate had been taken by hostile forces and none of them even knew if I _was_ alive, really." He briefly looked toward the window before looking back. "How many people have come to see you since you got here?"

Cam grimaced. "A few. My mom used to come by every weekend while I was still at Walter Reed, but it's a _long_ way from North Carolina to Colorado. Some of my squadron buddies were in to see me a couple of weeks ago."

Jackson's expression was incredulous. "That's it?"

"Yeah, pretty much," he replied, feigning nonchalance. "'Bout all I do is sleep and argue with the therapists, though."

"Even still, your friends should be here for you!" Jackson exclaimed, now looking like he had a major bone to pick with the rest of the world. "Recovering from _any _injury isn't easy, but having friends around to help always makes it a lot easier."

Cam chuckled. "The voice of experience?"

"Something like that. Though I can't say I've ever been hurt as badly as you were," he answered, then amended, "at least not and lived through it."

"How 'bout passing a little of that famous Jackson Luck my way, then?"

The archaeologist's brows rose. "More like 'fickle' Jackson Luck. But you don't need luck to get back on your feet, Mitchell, just determination."

"It's gonna take a whole hell of a lot more than just 'determination' to get me walking again, let alone fit for flying combat aircraft," Cam pointed out, just barely managing to keep a sulky tone from creeping into his voice.

Jackson wasn't even slightly fazed. "How about fit for ground combat? From what people tell me, you're a good commander. We could use somebody like you at the SGC."

"Who's leading SG-1 these days?" he replied sarcastically.

"Sam is. We're a three-man, uh, three-_person_ team right now. Of course, with Sam working on more science projects, Teal'c working with the Rebel Jaffa, and me getting sent to Antarctica to find the Lost City of the Ancients, we haven't been doing too much work as a team these last couple of months." He grimaced.

"Did you? Find the Lost City, I mean."

Jackson sighed. "Yeah. Turns out it moved a long time ago to a galaxy far, far away. We sent a team, but we haven't heard from them yet." He looked thoughtful. "Look, I'll mention it to Jack. We're always needing more team leaders, and I'd say you're about as qualified as they get. You've already fought the Goa'uld, which is more experience than most of our new commanders have going in."

Cam had to admit, the notion of leading an SG team wasn't one that he'd considered, yet it was gaining greater appeal the longer he thought of it. "Yeah, but you've got a spot open on _your_ team, don't cha?" he grinned impishly.

"_Sam_ leads SG-1," the other man pointed out. "You've got seniority on her, so I don't think you'll end up with us."

"Doesn't hurt me to ask."

"Sam might."

"Ouch! Man, she'd kick my ass into next week if I took her command!"

Jackson grinned. "Ya think?" His watch alarm chose that moment to go off, and he glanced at it in surprise. "Time flies, when you're having fun. I gotta get back to base, Mitchell, I'm scheduled to go on a mission with SG-15 in a couple of hours. You gonna be okay?"

"Oh, sure," he replied. "Just need determination, right?"

The archaeologist stood and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "Yeah, it helps. I'll talk to Colonel Pendergast, too, see if he can't get some of the other pilots down here to see you every once in a while."

"You don't have to--" Cam began before Jackson waved him off.

"I'll see if Sam can squeeze some time in, too. You two have known each other for a few years, haven't you?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned toward the door, saying half to himself, "Jack should probably drop by, especially after I tell him about you wanting to lead an SG team."

Cam wanted to protest that leading an SG team had actually been _Jackson_'s idea, not his, but now found the concept had so thoroughly intrigued him, he wasn't going to let go of it any time soon. "So I'll see you around?" he called.

"Probably," Jackson answered, pausing at the doorway, one hand resting on the frame. "See you at the SGC?"

The pilot grinned. "You passing along some of that famous Jackson Luck?"

"If that's what you want to call it," the archaeologist smiled, then disappeared into the hall.

Leaning back into the pillows, Cam's mind whirled with the possibilities. All his life, all he'd ever wanted to do was fly jets, maybe even become an astronaut and fly into space. Now that he'd been there and done that, maybe it was time to turn his life in another direction. Maybe it was time to take a more active role in Earth's future, to get out on the front line battlefields of the SGC.

Of course, he _first_ had to learn to walk again. But that was easy enough, right? Glancing at the clock to make sure he had time to take Cheryl up on her offer, he realized he hadn't needed even _two_ hours.

* * *

Author's Notes:  
Thanks to everyone who's given me their support, feedback, and well-wishes for my brother! Only 'nine days and a wake-up' as of the completion of this fic, then it's back to Ft. Dix for out-processing, then home for the holidays! 


End file.
